


Infinite and Unforeseen

by tigerlady (shetiger)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-06
Updated: 2010-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shetiger/pseuds/tigerlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Rodney needed more than small touches right now. He needed to hold John, and be held, and he sure as hell wasn't going to get away with that in front of witnesses.</i> A planetary expedition goes bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinite and Unforeseen

Ronon started pacing again, shortened, angry steps through the cramped space of the observation room. Rodney glanced over at John, who was busy staring off into space as he slouched in the infirmary chair, arms crossed like nothing could touch him. Rodney looked away before he gave in to the urge to try. Just the back of his hand pressed discreetly against John's thigh, or a quick brush of their ankles disguised as restless repositioning in the hard chairs. No one would notice, but Rodney needed more than small touches right now. He needed to hold John, and be held, and he sure as hell wasn't going to get away with that in front of witnesses.

He wasn't sure if John had anything to give right now, anyway. Maybe later, when they were alone. Maybe once everything was okay.

Elizabeth sighed at Rodney's other shoulder. Rodney shifted so he could meet her eyes, and she smiled wanly at him. Her eyes drifted down to his neck, and then she looked sharply away, back at the reflections in the theater window. Rodney reached up, and found a trace of dried blood on his neck that he'd missed.

He glanced away from the matching rust on his jacket and down to his stained cuticles, reminding himself that Carson was the best. The alcohol wipe was dry and useless now, but he kept it tucked in a pink crumple under his thumb. Every time he'd tried to spot the wastebasket, his eyes would trip over the sticky spots on his knees or the dark edges of John's cuffs. Rodney closed his eyes and slouched down, taking refuge in the warmth of John's shoulder pressed into his own.

******

It had happened fast, like everything else that had happened since they'd come to Atlantis. They were running for their lives again: Teyla out in front as always, Xena in grey and blue; John pacing Rodney, running in a sideways lope as he looked ahead and back with his P90 ready; and Ronon a few feet behind them, the steady thump-thump of his heavy strides a constant reassurance that the bad guys hadn't caught up to them yet.

They were three-quarters of the way back to the jumper, and Rodney was just starting to think both that they might make it and that his lungs were going to give out, when Teyla went down hard.

He thought she'd tripped. If he'd had any air to spare, he might have laughed, because, wow. Teyla being ungraceful was a once-a-year occurrence. But then there was a flash from the bushes beyond her, and John yanked Rodney down while firing an eardrum-breaking burst of bullets. Shortly after that, Rodney's brain caught up enough to realize that they were in trouble. John kept firing, and Rodney fumbled with his holster, trying to figure out what he needed to do and how he was supposed to do it while splayed out flat with his face in a mound of dry grass. It was rough on his cheek and tickled against his neck and he thought he might sneeze from the dirty-sweet smell of it.

Then John was pulling him up again, shoving him forward. Rodney could see John yelling, but his ears were ringing from the gunfire. They flung themselves to the ground next to Teyla, dust and leaves spraying up around them as they squirmed closer. Ronon's gun flashed red above them, knocking out the sniper. John darted forward.

Rodney knew something was wrong before John reached out to roll her over. There was so much blood. An impossible amount of blood, soaking her shirt and painting her bare belly a garish tempera red before it puddled on the ground beneath her.

Rodney swallowed hard as John roughly brushed the hair away from her neck, no time for gentle as he felt for a pulse. John's head dropped, his shoulders sagging in a deep, rushed sigh, relief so palpable Rodney felt it on top of his own.

"She's alive," John said. "Get the pressure bandages out. Ronon, nice shot. We good?"

Rodney glanced up while he patted at his vests pockets. Ronon met his eyes, worried, before looking back to their surroundings like an angry wolf.

"For now," Ronon said.

Rodney found the right pocket and pulled out the bandage.

John didn't look away from where he was putting pressure on Teyla's gut. "Can you slide it under my hands?"

Rodney nodded, trying to ignore the fact that John's hands were now stained the same color as everything else. He stripped the Velcro free, letting the tabs unfurl around his hands. He pushed the pad up to John's hands, and then John moved enough to let him slip it under. John had his hands back in place before Rodney could dwell on what he'd seen. He ignored the sticky slickness on his hands and worked the rest of the bandage into position. It was difficult to get the ties worked under her back, his hands too big and John everywhere he needed to be and so much damn red mud all over, but he finally did it, and secured it at her side.

"You can let up now," he told John.

John didn't move back immediately. When he did, he was slow and stiff, like an old man caught out in the cold. He wiped his hands across a nearby tuft of grass, one quick slide that probably didn't do anything, and then he was all business again.

"Ronon! Report!"

"We're clear, but the reinforcements will be here soon."

"Damn it," John cursed softly. "We've got to get her back to Atlantis."

"We can't move her," Rodney broke in, panicking at the thought of dragging her over the brush-heavy trail, more and more blood lost with every jarring movement. "You know we can't move her."

"I know, Rodney," John said, soothing, not impatient at all. "I'm going for the jumper."

"What? They're still out there!" They hadn't heard any more gunfire, but that didn't mean it was safe. "You could be walking into an ambush!"

John's face hardened, like he didn't have time for Rodney's concern when it came to himself. "You have any better ideas, McKay?"

"No, no, you're right," he muttered quickly, turning back to Teyla so he wouldn't have to see John leave. It didn't stop his fear, though, or his sudden, embarrassing need to ask for promises. He kept his eyes on her face as John fired off quick instructions to Ronon.

John squeezed his shoulder, fingers trailing over Rodney's neck as he let go, a subtle goodbye Rodney didn't want to acknowledge. John paused over Teyla for a few precious seconds, and then he left. The grass rustled in his wake, the soft sound lingering long after he was gone.

Rodney pulled Teyla's knees up, then shrugged out of his pack and wedged it under her thighs, following the protocols Carson had taught them.

"How is she?" Ronon asked, squatting down at her side.

"I have no idea." Rodney steeled himself, then laid two fingers under her jaw. Her pulse was there, fast and faint. He pulled back, feeling kind of dizzy.

He took a few deep breaths and glanced around. "Shouldn't you be watching our backs?" he snapped.

Ronon raised an eyebrow, but he stood without saying anything and went back to whatever warrior thing he had been doing before.

Rodney dropped his face toward his hands–and stopped as he realized that he was covered in blood as well. There were alcohol swabs in his pack. Cleansing, sterilizing alcohol on a nice, neat little cloth–in his pack. In his pack, which was under Teyla's knees.

He rubbed his hands across the grass, like John had. It did as little good as he'd suspected.

Teyla moaned. Rodney forget about his hands and lurched towards her, catching her shoulder and pressing it towards the ground as she started to move.

"You need to stay still," he told her, waiting as her eyelids fluttered, not sure whether to hope for her to regain consciousness right now or not. He couldn't imagine–didn't want to imagine–how painful her wound must be.

"Rodney?" she asked, the consonants slurring together, her voice so soft he could hardly make out his name. "What's wrong?"

"Colonel Sheppard's on his way with the jumper," he told her, hoping he came off sounding calm and confident. "We'll be back in Atlantis soon."

She still looked confused, her eyes darting around restlessly even as her eyelids drooped again. He caught her flailing hand before she could hurt herself more.

"Thirsty," she breathed. Rodney squeezed her hand, knowing he couldn't help with that, but she dropped back to unconsciousness before he could explain it to her.

"What's taking so long?" he choked out, his impatient yell strangled by the last-second realization that crazy people were looking for them. Rodney started to reach for his earpiece, but he couldn't make himself make the call. John should be back by now, surely, which meant that he'd run into trouble somewhere along the way.

Ronon paced back to them and crouched down. "It hasn't been that long," he said quietly. He reached out and brushed a lock of matted hair off of Teyla's cheek, then held his hand above her face, obviously checking for her breath.

"Long enough," Rodney muttered. "Maybe you should go make sure he didn't get ambushed or something."

Ronon looked up. His eyes were sure and calm, and they held Rodney steady in the chaos. "Sheppard knows what he's doing. Give him a few more minutes."

"Right." Rodney could do that. He had to do that, because there wasn't anything else he could do. And Ronon was right. John had broken the Genii's hold on Atlantis like it was nothing but a training exercise. He wouldn't have any problem getting back to the jumper.

Teyla whimpered, a tiny sound that reminded Rodney of his cat having nightmares. He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. A breeze blew up, at first a simple rustling through the dry grasses, but then kicking up hard. The jumper uncloaked a few feet above and beyond them. Rodney thought he might pass out from relief.

After that, it was all doing, no time for thinking. They got Teyla bundled into the back of the shuttle, and though the flight seemed to take forever, it was only a few minutes before he was punching in the gate address and sending the IDC.

And then, thank god, Carson was there, and Rodney didn't have to worry about Teyla anymore.

*****

Prognosis good. Prognosis good. The words looped in a steadying rhythm in his head as Rodney scrubbed away the last little flecks on his fingernails. He didn't know why it was bothering him so much; they'd all had brushes with death before. John had died, and Rodney had thought John was dead more times than he wanted to count. Nothing was worse than that, that sick feeling of emptiness that only got emptier and emptier each time it happened. So what happened with Teyla shouldn't even register.

Except Rodney had never had somebody else's blood on his hands like that before, never that much. He could still feel it, slick and sticky all at the same time, hot and stinking and smelling sharp like fresh metal shavings. Teyla had looked so tiny and fragile, as if her Teyla-ness had bled out along with the red.

Rodney toweled off and started dressing on automatic. He didn't want to think about it anymore. It was over. Teyla was going to be fine; they just had to wait for her body to heal itself. Worrying wouldn't accomplish anything. Radek had been working on a new emergency work-around for the puddle jumper propulsion system before they'd gone off-world. Rodney should check on his progress.

He went to John's room instead. John let him in before Rodney could even ask. The puffiness under John's eyes exactly matched the swollen, bruised feeling Rodney'd been carrying with him since he left the infirmary.

They didn't touch. They stayed on opposite sides of the room, as if getting too close would result in an exothermic reaction Atlantis wouldn't be able to contain.

"You okay?"

Rodney shook his head. "I am very, very not-okay. Quite possibly the definition of not-okay."

John nodded absently, turning toward the gloom of his open window. Turning away from Rodney. "Yeah, I get that."

Rodney sighed. "Do you? Because I don't get it."

John's shrug was a flicker of shadow through the black of his shirt. Rodney collapsed onto the straight-backed chair, wondering if John was going to keep shutting him out. Wondering if he was better off leaving, because John obviously didn't need reassurance the way Rodney needed it. Self-sacrifice had never been Rodney's strength, though, and he was selfish enough to want to be around John. Even if they were just sharing space while Rodney worked out his thoughts.

"I was thinking that it's because it's so immediate, you know? Or that's not exactly it, either. Because hello, stared death in the face enough times to be on a first-name basis." Rodney stopped, rolling his fingers together as he tried to describe it. "I think, in the past, I was always the one saving our asses, or else there was absolutely nothing I could do. Nothing in between. But with Teyla, I had to help, but I could only do so much."

John nodded. "Pretty much, yeah." He turned towards Rodney, just a little, enough that Rodney could see the curve of his pec and the slope of his jaw.

"God, John. There was just so much blood. Have you ever seen that much–no, don't answer that." John tensed, and Rodney realized he'd strayed into uncertain territory. "I mean, if you want to tell me, you can, but I really don't need to hear the gory details."

John snorted and turned all the way around, shaking his head. "I'll spare you, then."

Rodney stood and walked over to John. He stopped when their crossed arms brushed together. "Seriously. How do you deal with it, the, the horror of it all?"

John looked down at their arms, his Adam's apple working hard, sliding up and down in jerky bursts. "I don't think about it," he said.

Rodney snorted this time. "I don't believe that."

"Rodney." John closed his eyes. "Don't make me go there. I can't tell you how to get through it, and if I analyze it too much then it doesn't work for me anymore."

Rodney nodded, dropping his arms. He'd gotten as much as he thought he'd get. "Right. Well, it's been a long day, obviously. I should go."

John caught him by the wrist before he'd even taken a step. Rodney turned back, expecting anger, or maybe frustration, but John's eyes were wide and soft. John licked his lips and looked past Rodney's face.

"While Beckett was operating, I just kept thinking, thank god it wasn't you." His fingers clenched on Rodney's wrist, just short of painful. "I shouldn't prioritize that way, but it's all I ever think when something happens. Please, just let Rodney be okay."

Rodney had a burning knot in his stomach from the vulnerability on John's face. Everything was there like a perfect portrait: fear, and failure, and a desperate need for reassurance in John's eyes that matched Rodney's own.

"John," he said, because there weren't any other words that weren't cliched and stupid. Rodney brought his other hand up and set it against John's chest.

"I don't want to think about it anymore," John whispered.

Rodney closed his eyes and met John's lips, soft and easy, letting John have everything he had to give. John gasped into his mouth, and Rodney whimpered back, wordless promises passing between them.


End file.
